IV.
Sam doesn't like to think that Dean failed, because he didn't, not in any sense of the word. He did all he could and gave everything he had and Sam knows and appreciates that in such a deep way that he knows he will never be able to explain to his brother. But it doesn't matter how many high praises Sam has for his brother because Dean will do what Dean has always done and he'll blame himself anyways, even if Sam happened to be there to console him.
Sam can't exactly say he witnessed the event that led to Dean's deeper descent into self-doubt, but he sure can provide evidence from the past to clear his brother's name. Dean's never failed him before, and he sure as hell wouldn't do so now.
Sam knows this without actually being there. Well, technically, he was there, though he was not aware. Some would argue that his mind and spirit were gone while his mortal body remained on earth. Others might even say that his soul had still been wandering around, waiting for eternity to be over. But none of these points matter because Sam can't remember what happened. Not one bit.
Because Sam was dead.
The whole experience was muddled in a confusing way from the pain as his mind drifted away from existence. Truly, he can't remember much of his death. He remembers the knife, the sharp agony as the blade had pierced his skin and dug deep into his flesh and bone, slicing and ripping until it had been twisted to the side and been torn away just as quickly as it had entered. He remembers feeling so damn tired, his eyes rolling around loosely in his fuzzy head while his eyelids had tried to decide whether or not they wanted to stay open.
It's a strange feeling, dying is. Feeling the world slipping away like ink running down a page is about as fun as it seems. He was too tired to even care that everything was falling, too tired to even wonder if this was the end, too tired to wonder if he would see Mom or Dad or Jess once he was gone.
He remembers hearing Dean calling brokenly to him, hands frantically moving from his face to his hair to back until the process had repeated. His brother had spoken soft reassurances, trying desperately to ground Sam with some confidence and a half-hearted smile.
But nothing helps, not even his strong brother Dean trying to keep him alive. Sam was already gone, gone, gone and no amount of pleading could keep him from bleeding out on the dirty ground.
Weeks after his death, when he's alive and well again except for the fact that his older brother's doomed to go to the pit, Sam sits with Bobby in the older man's living room. The brothers are currently between hunts on the action-packed mission Dean seems to have taken since his death sentence, his ultimate goal to kill as many monsters as he can with as little regard as possible for his well-being. While Dean is out fetching more food and alcohol, Sam's taking his chance to secretly load up the Impala with more lore that could save his brother.
Their job finished for the time being, Sam and Bobby sit back in their creaky old chairs. Beer bottles are clutched in their hands, the empty bottles sitting off to the side in neat little groups. Sam's pleasantly buzzed, enough beer in him to make him feel nice and warm but not enough to erase his mind and induce a headache from hell. Bobby looks like he's experiencing the same feeling, for the lines of stress have disappeared from his face and his tired eyes are alert and ready. They're both buzzed enough to be open to any conversation topic, which makes Sam glad that Dean is currently out.
It's probably their compromised positions that lead to Sam reflecting on his death and his brother's stupid decision. It's probably that position that keeps him from realizing that he's thinking out loud until he spots Bobby's solemn face from across the room.
"Do you know what happened after you died?" Bobby asks. His voice isn't judgmental or forceful, just prepared to state some facts for an uninformed mind.
Sam shakes his head. Dean had absolutely refused to talk about what happened when Sam died, so Sam had eventually dropped the subject.
"Well," The older man starts, adjusting in his creaky chair and taking a long sip of beer as he leans forward. "After you was stabbed, your brother stayed back to help ya and I ran ahead to try and catch that Jake kid. He got away so I had to head back and find you and your brother."
He pauses again and a drinks some more. Sam lets him take his time and doesn't comment as Bobby's eyes flicker around the room, looking at everything but Sam.
"Well, when I got close and your brother wasn't too far away, I knew somethin' wasn't right. Sure, you'd been hurt bad before I ran off, but I just knew it was real bad when I got close."
"How'd you know?" Sam asks softly.
Bobby sighs. "Dean had ya in his arms real tight, Sam. You was still kneelin' and Dean was in front of ya doin' the same. I could tell he was the only thing holdin' you up an' he was rockin' back an' forth with ya. 'Course, I was scared but I didn't know for sure 'til I was practically behind you." Bobby swallows, but he doesn't drink any more beer this time, he just gulps down lumps of air. "When I was right there, that's when I could see Dean was cryin' with one of his hands still coverin' that damn wound on your back. That's when I knew you was gone."
Sam doesn't speak because he doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if there really is anything to say that would even help. Sam had known it hadn't been pretty, and he can't possibly fathom how horrible it had been for Dean to hold him as he died, but it's still difficult for him to imagine what Bobby's told him. Dean had always been the anchor in his life, the one constant Sam could depend on when they jumped from town to town with their dad's presence being transient at best. Sam could probably count the number of times Dean had cried on one hand. The fact that Bobby had found Dean crying over his corpse, while it was a little comforting on some level, was heartbreaking. Against his will, Sam's eyes start to water and he wishes he could blame it on the booze.
"Then what?" Sam manages to croak out.
"I told him we had to get out of that God-awful place so he just scooped you up and started walkin'. The tears were gone and his face was so empty and I didn't know what to do so I just let him carry you. Even if I'd offered to help, I knew he wouldn't let me. It isn't in his nature to let someone else carry off his baby brother."
"Yeah," Sam agrees. "It sure isn't."
Bobby drinks again. "I swear to God that I've never seen that boy look so lost before in my entire life. He held ya tight 'til you was in that bed, then he just stood there and stared for hours. Didn't eat, didn't sleep, just watched over ya. Finally snapped at me to get out so I let him be." Bobby looks to the ceiling with lost eyes. "I should have known he was gonna do somethin' stupid." Bobby drags a heavy hand down his face. "Bunch of idjits, the both of ya."
"You couldn't have known, Bobby." Sam consoles. His chest feels like a ten ton weight was shoved in him and he wonders if there's enough beer in the world to solve this.
Bobby drifts into a blissful state of drunkenness, letting the alcohol wash away all of his worries from the past few weeks. "He's always watched over ya, Sam. Always got you even when ya don't know it."
"I know, Bobby." Sam says, his vision blurred and his throat feeling like he's being choked. "I know."
They keep talking, going through beer after beer until the world spins around Sam's head and Bobby's words float in his brain. Sam just can't get the image out of his mind of Dean's painfully blank expression and hunched shoulders as he silently carries Sam's corpse to the end of the world.
They're both slumped in their chairs when Sam hears the low rumble of the Impala's engine pulling up to the house. Sam is too tired to get up and greet Dean, and he isn't even sure he'd be able to walk if he had the energy to. Bobby's passed out in his chair, head tilted back and mouth hanging open to let out his loud snores. The door slams open and shut, the noise not even managing to stir Bobby. Sam can't find it in his to open his eyes more when he hears the rustling of grocery bags and the gentle clink of bottles in the kitchen. Dean's footsteps are heavy and creak across the floor as he approaches the two drunk men. Sam can barely see his brother's dirty boots in his peripheral vision.
Dean's soft chuckling finally motivates Sam enough to look up. His older brother grins down at him, an eyebrow raised and hands on his hips.
"Well, well, well!" Dean proclaims. Across the room, Bobby shifts in his chair but doesn't awaken. "I guess I missed all the fun, fellas!"
Sam lets his head roll to the side. "So fun." He mutters in agreement. Even to his woozy mind, he knows that his words sound funny because his mouth feels funny and loose. He guesses everything is funny right now because he's drifting in a peaceful realm at the moment.
Right now, Sam's okay with feeling a little funny because in the morning, he'll have a killer headache along with the heavy weight he always feels when thinking about solving Dean's deal. Right now, Sam doesn't have to think about dying brothers and blank expressions and the dreadful feeling of inevitable death.
Dean laughs again and leans down to help Sam stand up from the chair, slinging the younger Winchester's arm across his shoulders. Sam helps with mild interest, his attention grabbed by a tiny spider crawling along the edge of a fraying rug back to its web.
"Hey, Sammy. I'm gonna get you up to bed, okay?" Dean says, guiding them both to the stairs.
Sam flings his weight back toward the living room, pointing lazily with an unsteady arm as Dean grunts from exertion. "Bobby?"
He feels Dean shake his head. "I'll get to Bobby soon. Let's get you taken care of first."
"Hm." Sam starts but he doesn't continue. Oh, Dean and his priorities. Even with Sam uninjured and completely drunk, Dean's still willing to carry Sam's weight across his shoulders and drag his lazy ass upstairs. Always carrying, carrying, carrying his brother. Sam wonders if he'll ever be able to thank Dean properly for all he's done.
"Dean," He says, the world all swirly again. "Thanks for everything."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbles. Sam thinks that Dean doesn't understand Sam is trying to thank him for every single moment he's been by his side, not just this particular incident in which he's putting a drunk Sam to bed. Then again, being thankful while drunk isn't exactly something that people tend to take seriously, especially when the other half of the party is emotionally constipated. "Just use your legs a little, okay? You can't expect me to carry your lazy ass all the time!"
Sam smiles and figures that's the least he can do.